A New Life
by Bre1
Summary: Ok, I have finally updated my story!!!! Yeah, Chapter 4 is UP!! sorry it took so long. This story is about life after Satines death for both Christian and Gabby-a new character. Please R&R, hope you like it!
1. Default Chapter

Essay 66

It was only 5 months after Satine's death, but it felt like years to Christian. Everyday was like living in a constant hell. He couldn't even breath without thinking of her, and how it could have been different. He had blamed everyone for her death that he could think of. He had blamed Satien for not seeing a doctor sooner, he had blamed the Bohemians for letting her live the life that she did, he had blamed Harry Zediler, the Duke, and even himself. He knew deep down that nothing anyone had said or did would have saved her, but Christian felt the blame had to fall on someone. Most often, he chose himself to be the barer of the burden. After a while, Christian began to feel numb. His heart was cold, his brain was constantly thinking of the worst memories he had, and he became completely unaffected emotionally. 

Toulouse sat up stairs in his small apartment. For almost a half a year now, he had watched a man that was once so lively and full of passion and innocence, so full of warmth and love… completely deteriorate and become a shell, with no feelings or emotions. Occasionally he got a word with his once so beloved friend, but mostly it was merely a simple hello when he went out to but alcohol and occasionally some food. Christian's attitude toward life had effected more people than he could know. The Boho's stopped publicly preaching their ideals and drank more and more. The diamond dogs had tried to help, but he had turned them away with a cold shoulder. Many of them quite dancing, some left, but others stayed around being denounced to little more than ragged hores. Even Harry Zediler had lost all heart when Satine died and then Christian had stopped writing. He had left Montramer to try and find solidarity in some other life, and Toulouse hadn't heard from him since. As for the Moulin Rouge, it was now gathering dust and was only home to rats and spiders. It was no longer filled with lively music and laughter, no longer did the lights blare across Montromere welcoming all to its heaven of sin, no longer did it serve as a home and sanctuary to all those who had lived for the revolution and for the Moulin Rouge. 

Toulouse sighed and threw his empty bottle of Absinth into a corner where a few previous bottles had already accumulated. 

"Ah Criwstian," he said shaking his head and going in search for another bottle that had even the slightest drop of the green liquid in it.

Christian found life would have been entirely impossible without the help of the green fairy. He seemed to drink so much that he had substituted it for most of his meals. After her death, he must have easily lost 40 pounds, and hadn't gained any since; not to mention he hadn't shaved either. His beard was long, scraggly and quite disgusting. Breadcrumbs and spilled Absinth resided in its innermost reaches, and he hadn't bothered to take a bar of soap to it in a few months. His skin was a sickening pale color, mostly from the effects of the bottle. He couldn't remember a morning where he didn't wake up with a splitting headache from his constant hangovers, but he seemed to be getting used to it by now. As for his writing, he had occasionally (when sober) tried to put his story down in words but had failed at each attempt. He would always tear out the sheets of paper he had written and would through them into the fire watching it with a resentful guilt as the fire engulfed the memories. Consequently this would plunge him into an even deeper state of depression, for he had promised Satine that he would write their story. It was five months later, and he still hadn't done it.

The light shown through the window where the partially torn drape couldn't prevent it, as the sun rose high into the sky. Christian rolled over in bed and groaned in pain. As the stubborn shaft of light refused to reside from shining right in his eyes, Christian sat up in bed, but almost laid back down as his head went swooning in dizziness and pain. When his eyes were able to focus, Christian looked down at his thrashed undershirt. 

"Fuck!" he cursed allowed as he realized that the shirt was covered in a sickening yellowish vomit. He quickly pulled off his shirt and threw it on the floor. The then raised a slightly shaking hand and felt his face, which was covered in crusty vomit as well.

"Ah, I need a shower any way. So Christian, how long has it been now?" he haphazardly said in a mocking voice to himself." I think about a few weeks Christian. But who cares, there's no one hear to smell me." He chuckled at his own joke, but it was more of a cruel, mocking, cynical laugh than one filled with warmth.

He rose slowly so not to set his head pounding again, and stumbled over to a pile of clothes on the ground. He grabbed another shirt, a pair of pants, and the cleanest pair of underwear he could find. He crossed over to the desk, and pulled a slightly damp hand towel from off the back of the chair that was along side the litter strune desk. On his way out the door, he doubled back and picked up as much of the dirty cloths he could hold. He would wash them with the bar of soap in the shower, because this was the only way he could do laundry without paying for it. A couple of the cloths feel back on to the floor, but he didn't bother bending over to pick them up. He didn't think his head could take it. He yanked open the broken door to his room with some difficulty, and dropped a pair of pants in the process. He cursed loudly and shuffled through the opening trying to navigate the bundle of clothes without dropping any more. Out in the hall, he hooked his foot on the edge of the open door and pulled it forward so it would shut behind him. The door didn't completely shut, but he had nothing of value for anyone to steal so he headed off down the hall to the bathroom. He had his own small water closet in his room, but it was way to small to fit a shower in, so instead he had to use the one at the end of the hall.

Using the bundle of clothes to push open the slightly ajar bathroom door, Christian managed to get himself inside. He dropped the bundle of close off to the side and shut the door behind him. He wondered if he was being rather rude by taking a shower this early in the morning, because everyone in the whole building could hear when the water was coursing threw the pipes. But he was covered in sweet and vomit, and decided that they probably need to get up by now anyway. Christian stripped the remainder of his clothes, and stepped into the bathtub. He turned a handle and waited as the water made its was to the showerhead before spitting it at him. The water was absolutely freezing; it hurled at his body like a thousand knives and made his breath catch in his chest. He quickly backed up out of the stream of water as much as possible.

"Jesus! That's cold!" He exclaimed as his body began to blossom with goose bumps. His teeth started to shake, and soon his whole body was uncontrollably shivering.

"Come on! Come on! How long is it going to take to warm up!" He said while sticking a tenitive in the stream of water. As soon as he had touched the water, he pulled his hand back in recoil for it was still frightfully cold. If it didn't warm up soon, he was going to just get out. This was one of the rooms that the wintertime most affected. The heater in there had been broken ever since Christian had moved in, and it was towards the outer part of the building meaning that every crack let in a draft of the cold winter air. 

"Christ, the pipes must be frozen. I just ought to get out." He mumbled to himself. He turned sharply to steep out of the lip of the tube, which was a mistake. One of the main problems Christian experienced with his Absinth infatuation was that the next morning, he would usually get dizzy, and sharp movements didn't help any. As he tried to get out, his head began to spin. He tried to steady himself by putting a hand on the tub edge, but seeing blurred, missed. He felt his feet slip out from under him on the wet tub floor and stuck out a hand to brace his fall. He felt his hand grasp the side, but a moment later the wait of his body came crashing down upon it. In a wave of anguishing pain, he felt his arm crack and his body smash against the tub floor. Sprawled out on the floor, getting pelted with the icy water, head blurry and hot tears streaming down his face he let out a cry in anguishing before completely collapsing into a dead faint. 


	2. Chapter 2- Toulose

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Toulouse rolled over in bed again desperately trying to get back to sleep. He had only gone to bed a couple of hours ago and now he was being woken up by some ignorant fool who thought it would be nice to take a shower at the crack of dawn. He jammed the pillow over his ears to try and block out the sound that the pipes always made whenever the water was running. Knowing he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, he rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. Whoever was taking a shower, was taking a really long one. It had been about twenty minutes, and Toulouse was sure there wasn't enough hot water to sustain a shower for that long, especially in the winter. Reluctantly, he flung his feet over the side of his cot and massaged his temples in a sitting position. He needed a drink. Sleepily he stumped over to cupboard where their supply of alcohol was usually kept and pulled open the two cupboard doors. Nothing, not even an empty bottle was in there.

"Shewt." He grumbled. He eyed the whole that had been made almost two years ago now, when Jose had fallen threw into Christian's room, that they had never bothered to patch. Toulouse had done this on purpose; this was the only way he could make sure Christian was all right. Suddenly, he had an idea. He'd ask Christian if he had a drink, at least he might be able to talk to him. He hadn't seen or spoken to him in quite a while now, and he was beginning to be a bit concerned. He walked over to the hole and lay flat on his belly. The racket the pipes were making must have woken him up by now. But then again, with the amount of drinking that he did, he could easily be passed out tell noon. At any rate, he took of his hat and placed it besides him. He then stuck his head threw the hole and shouted

"Hey Chriwstian!" no response. He tried again, this time a bit louder. "HEY CHRIWSTIAN!" still nothing. Toulouse inched his body further so now his whole torso and head were threw the hole which gave him a perfect view of Christian's room. "Chriwstian?" he said almost in a whisper. He wasn't in his bed, the balcony doors where shut, and the desk chair sat empty. He couldn't have left, not for good. He would have taken his things with him. Maybe he went to the bar. No, no, the bars didn't open tell around 10:00 and it was only about 6:30. Then a thought struck him. Hey, maybe he's the one in the shower. Fear began to flood through Toulouse's veins. The water had been running for about a half an hour now. It would be impossible for someone to be in the shower without freezing. The room wasn't heated either, which made it even colder. And with snow like there was last night, surely the pipes were frozen. 

'My god he thought, he's tried to kill himself.' 

"Oh no! Oh no!" Toulouse screamed waking the Argentinean with a start. 

What? What? His words were sleepily slurred but he sounded concerned.

"He'ws done wt, Chriwstianw's done wt! He'ws killed himwslef!" Toulouse shouted at Jose. He had told Christian that suicide was no answer to his problems. He had been raised Catholic, he knew he shouldn't. He promised Toulouse that he wouldn't. Toulouse didn't wait for the Argentinean to fully grasp what he was saying for his words had been heavily slurred due to his lisp and fright. He tore down stairs and down the hall as fast as his little legs could carry him, and heard thundering footsteps behind him which told him that Jose had finally comprehend what Toulouse had said and was coming to help. He reached the bathroom door and wrenched it open.

He was laying there, spread eagle on the bottom of the bath with the water pounding on top of him. His body was blue. His fingertips and lips were purple. His face, his face was white. So white it looked as tough he were wearing make up. Toulouse ran over and hurriedly shut off the faucet. His hands shaking uncontrollably he shook Christian's shoulders. His head flopped lazily to one side and then to the other. Toulouse felt tears begin to flow out of his eyes blurring his vision. He shook harder hoping to wake him up all the while moaning "no, no, no." Jose bounded in the door and hesitated as a look of shier terror spread across his face. 

"Stop! Stop!" he shouted at Toulouse who obeyed and backed off. The Argentinean picked up Christian's cold limp body and started out the door. He ran as fast as he could without dropping Christian back up to their room with Toulouse following closely behind. Jose kicked open the door and went to his bed. He threw back the covers and placed Christian inside and covered him again. With the help of Toulouse, the piled as many blankets upon him and then pulled the ice off his strands of frozen hair. They rapped a towel around his head so in the end only his nose, mouth and eyes were exposed. Toulouse whipped around and, a little harder than he meant to, kicked the half asleep Setie. Setie sat bolt upright and looked frantically around. 

"Go, hurwey, get a doctor as fast as you can! Tell him a man's freezing to death, tell him to hurwey!" Setie, still hung over from last nights debacles got up as fast as he could and ran flat into the wall next to the door. Shaking his head he got up again and this time ran threw the door and downstairs. Toulouse heard his feet echo all the way tell he was out the door.

"I just whope he can tell the doc before itsw too late." Toulouse said with a sidelong glance at Christian.

"It's not enough," the Argentinean said. "He needs more warmth. Toulouse, come, crawl in with me. We can use our body heat to warm up the blankets for he has none." They both crawled in besides Christian and pressed their bodies against his. 

Not long after, they once again heard footsteps coming up the stairs to their room. Halfway up they heard a loud thump and the other pair of footsteps temporally pause, and then continue to run to the top. An older man in about his 50's ran in. He had graying hair and a mustache that completely covered the top of his lip. He was quite tall, but a wispy man that didn't look to have much weight on him. Red eyed and still in his sleeping gown, he hurried over to the bed where barley visible, white, Christian lay with Toulouse and the Argentinean close besides him. The doctor quickly pulled out a stethoscope and put it in his ears. With the other hand, he shoved it down the blankets and after a moments rustling, found the right spot and became absolutely still. Toulouse realized that he was holding his breath waiting for the doctor's announcement.

"How long has he been like this?" he asked with a shaky voice. Toulouse saw his hand move again under the covers, looking for a sign of life.

"About 45 minutews Sir." Toulouse was able to whisper.

More rustling, and then the doctor's body went stiff. He seemed to press harder with his hand, his brow furrowed. Then he removed his hand and sighed. 

"His got a heartbeat, but its so faint I could barley hear it." The doctor said looking relieved.

Toulouse was thrilled. He began to sob uncontrollably again, but this time it was for joy. 

"You have got to keep him very warm, lying with him for a while longer can only help him. Quite frankly your lucky, if you had gotten to him any later, well I don't think I would have been able to give you good news. Here's a medication that should help his heart pump faster, getting the blood flowing better; I don't want to take any chances, he might just not make it you know. But, if you keep him warm and give him this every 2 hours, in a couple days he should be almost fully recovered. I'll come by tomorrow to check on him."

Thank woo doctor, thank woo." Toulouse called after him as he picked up his bag to leave.

"Ah yes," he said turning around once again, "your friend out there became unconscious half way up the stairs. It's a good thing he was even able to deliver the message. May I suggest that he, or this young man in bed don't have anything to drink for a while? Humm, yes, especially the young man, it would be bad for it to get in his blood stream along with the medicine." The doctor then turned and left, his nightgown swishing as he turned sharply out of the door and down the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3- Christian

Chapter 3 

Chapter 3

Christian slept threw the next two days. He was looking much better though, the color had returned in his face, but they still hadn't moved him or attempted to dress him. When he awoke they would. The doctor had come back yesterday to check on him and gave them more medication. He instructed them to give him some soup when he awoke, and reminded them again that he should only be drinking water. Toulouse had felt very relieved that Christian was going to be ok, but also slightly put down because he thought that Christian had tried to kill himself. Toulouse knew if he was ever going to get through to Christian, to tell him he had to stop living the way he was, this was the time to do it. The way Toulouse saw it, Christian had been given a second chance, and he couldn't screw this one up.

On the morning of the third day, Christian stirred. He began to groan and tried to pull some of the blankets off. Toulouse who had been drawing out a sketch for his next painting looked over his shoulder in curiosity as Christian blinked his eyes furiously trying to get the room into focus. Toulouse excitedly hoped off his chair and scuttled over to him. 

"Feewing better Chriwstian?" Toulouse asked smiling and looking down at him as he attempted to prop his body up against the headboard. Toulouse assisted him by placing a pillow under his shoulders so he could sit up easier.

"Huhhh," he said rubbing his head. "I suppose so."

"Good, now you should eat somesing." Toulouse walked over to the stove and grabbed the can of soup on the counter. Pulling out a pocketknife, he brought it down hard against the stubborn metal top. After several exasperated tries, he was able to poke a decent sized hole in the top of the soup can. Squatting down, he reached below the stove and yanked open the cupboard, and withdrew a pot from within; although it wasn't without some difficulty. He then stood up straight and placed it on one of the burners. He grabbed a matchbox from the table next to the stove and lit a match. Holding the flaming match under the pot, he turned on the gas. The flam exploded singing his eyebrows and the top of his hair. Turning down the flam and cursing under his breath, he grabbed the can and poured the soup broth out threw the hole into the pot.

Christian watched attentively as the little man work with his back toward him. He felt quezzy as he tried to contemplate the recent events. All he could think of was the searing pain that had begun to shoot down his left arm ever since he had woken up. As everything had come into better focus and clarity, so did the anguish that his arm was inflicting on him. Then he remembered his fall, and how he had landed right on his arm before everything had gone black. He remembered the cold, the freezing cold that had turned his blood to ice. A slight shiver ran down his spin as he laid with mixed emotions thinking about it. Wincing in pain, he pulled out his left arm above the covers. It was twice its normal size and a deep shade of purple. He must have broken it quite badly. 

"Toulouse" he called pleadingly. "I need something for my arm, I… I…think it's broken," he stammered as he choked back tears. Composing himself he asked in a hopeful tone, "do you have any Absinth left, any alcohol at all? Please I really need it." He sounded like a small boy begging for candy at a sweet shop, but that was what alcohol had become to him; he no longer just wanted it, he needed it.

Toulouse turned to face him, his brow furrowed. "Your awm?" He said inquisitively. As he glanced at Christian, a look of shock and pity swept over his face as he saw the cause of Christians discomfort. "Wwe, wwe had no idea your awm was hurt." He said in a soft caring tone. Then suddenly his expression changed and his face became hard, almost angry. "No, no, no Chriwstian. Yoo can't have any alcohol; the doctor said yoo should have water and swoup only, even if your awm hurts, no alcohol. It could rweelly have a bad effect on you, the medicine and de alcohol wouldn't mix well in your blood, so don't ask me again." He stated, stressing the severity of the situation. Along with his tone and the look of determination in his eyes, Christian realized he wasn't going to change his mind.

"Well," he said pleading again, "I need something, anything, more medication, I don't care, I just can't stand it, it feels like my arm is on fire." He moaned to Toulouse.

"Okay, okay, don't worrwey I'll send Jose to get the doctor again." He sighed half glancing at Christian's arm. It did look quite painful he thought to himself. He walked to the other side of the room while the soup was slowly cooking on the stove. The Argentinean was humming to himself, sowing a hole that was present in a pair of his favorite pants.

"While I cook the swoup for Chriwstian can you…" but he was never able to finish what the Argentinean was to do while Toulouse was busy cooking because at that moment he cut Toulouse off by relapsing into one of his narcoleptic states.

Toulouse gave an irritated sigh, knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do. Instead, he walked back over to the stove, turned down the burner so it wouldn't overcook and looked sympathetically at Christian.

"I don't know where Setie and the Doc are, so I'm off to find the weal doctor by myself. I'll be back soon and then we can get you somesing for that awm." He added as he began to make his way towards the door.

"Thanks Toulouse" Christian muttered at his retreating back. With a wave of his hand in acknowledgment to Christian's statement, Toulouse left him utterly alone with his thoughts. For Toulouse and Christian, this was more of a danger than either of them could have anticipated.

Christian sat in wonderment as he contemplated his life's recent events. Why was he still alive, was someone trying to tell him something, trying to give him second chance? God? No Christian thought resentfully. There was no God, or at least not for him. He still believed in the principals of heaven and hell, but he knew that God had disserted him the day he had killed Satine. In Christian's mind, God wasn't concerned about him. Then what was it? It, it couldn't have been her, could it? A sorrow swept over him like the ocean tide. His dear Satine. Was she trying to reach him? Was she trying to get him to come to heaven with her, was she anxiously anticipating his parting from this horrible world into the next where they could finally be together? I had to have been; that was the answer. He suddenly felt a stab of pain, in the deep recesses of his heart. He had been so close. So close to internal happiness. He wouldn't have had to live one more unbearable day without her. Why, why had fate been so cruel as to deprive him of happiness once again when he had been so close? Then, with a striking realization one name came to him. He could never have imagined the feeling of total loathing that overcame him when he thought of this one name. Toulouse. He had ruined it, he had prevented Christian from being with Satine because he had interfered with Christian's life. He had kept him away from her, from his Sparkling Diamond. Christian couldn't believe the hatred that was blossoming in his inner sole like a cancer, a cancer of darkness; that completely consumed his body and mind. He wanted to hurt, to kill the man that had left him in pain. The man who had deprived him of Satine.His brow furrowed, he began to curse under his breath as the abhorrent feeling spread to his very toes and fingertips. In an unconscious daze, he felt his legs swing out from under the covers, and his bare feet touch the cold hard ground. As though he was watching someone else control his body, he stood up, completely naked and walked over to the soup that was now boiling very rapidly. Footsteps. A grin of complete maliciousness spread over his face as he grabbed the pot handle knowing Toulouse would be there soon. Not even wincing, hardly even noticing the siring hot pain that ate away the flesh on his palm as he grabbed the burning hot handle, he could only think of Toulouse. He was going to filing the soup right at his eyes and watch, laughing as he struggled against the burning pain and blindness that would soon follow. He heard the door open and Toulouse walk in unsuspecting. He began to speak when his bewildered eyes fell upon Christian. Pale and completely bare, holding the still boiling pot of soup, with a look, a look in his eyes which made Toulouse freeze on the spot in complete horror. Christian was going to kill him. He could tell. He hate that surged through his eyes seemed to be spelling out his certain death. He couldn't move, his legs wouldn't respond. Christian began to slowly advance on him. He began to speak in a low rasp voice that was not his.

"You have done this to me Toulouse. You are no friend; you are the devils spawn. You probably killed Satine in the beginning; you couldn't stand me being happy. You wanted her for yourself. Desperate, knowing you could never have her; you murdered her so no one else could. Then, that wasn't enough for you. I didn't commit suicide and you knew that. You knew that I would have gone to heaven, and that I would have gotten to be with her. You couldn't even let me be happy in death. You prevented me from her, from happiness, and now you will get to feel some of the pain that you have caused me, you murderer!" He didn't need to shout; his stair was enough to scare Toulouse to death. Hard, fixed and cold; it was like looking into an endless well. He was speaking irrationally, no one had killed Satine, and Toulouse hadn't known that Christian didn't try to commit suicide. He had only wanted what made Christian happy. Christian knew this, he had told him before. Toulouse had been his first friend; he had been the one to welcome him with open arms into the Bohemian revolution. Why, why was Christian doing this? Toulouse realized that he either had to bring sense to Christian, fast, or he was going to be killed. Frantic, not being able to think clearly for he was petrified with fear, Toulouse shifted his mind for the right words. They weren't coming, and Christian was getting closer, beginning to raise his arm. He opened his mouth to speak and nothing issued forth but his shaking breath. He was going to die. 

At that moment, right as Christian was going to fling the sizzling hot soup, the doctor rushed in.

"So, sorry, I forgot the medicine and had to double back…" but at that moment he rushed head long into Toulouse who had been frozen to the spot in the doorway.

"Uffff!" he said as he dropped his bag and was nearly knocked on the ground. He straighten up and was about to apologize when, for the first time he was able to properly surveying the scene that lay before his eyes. His cheeks suddenly became drained of all the color that they had accumulated on the journey up the stairs. He glanced, totally shocked and confused from the naked Christian holding the pot as though he was about to chuck its contents, to the terrified Toulouse who stood motionless on the spot. His eyes moved form one to the other trying to make sense out of the situation.

At the brief moment of the doctor's timely arrival, Christian paused just long enough for Toulouse to find the courage and the right words to say what he had to.

In a shaky but determined voice, Toulouse quickly shouted, " Who are you?" the simplicity of the question, and the confidence and power in Toulouse's voice took Christian completely off guard. Before he could even respond, Toulouse had begun to continue. "You are not the man that Satine fell in love with. You are not the man that she died pledging her love for. What have you done with that man, my friend and Satine's true lover?" He paused his heart beating rapidly and his mind trying to find more words. He could do it, he thought, Christian needs to hear this, he needs to know the truth. His hands were still shaking and his face was still white, but there was no trace of uncertainty in his voice. "You are a disgrace to truth, freedom, beauty, and most of all love. You are a disgrace to Satine's love, you are not worthy of such a high attribute!" Christian now stood completely motionless in disbelief as the emotion and anger poured forth form the little man. "She asked you to do one thing to prove your love to her, to write your story, and you didn't even do that. Instead you became a filthy, drunken, slob and mocked what Satine died for!" He was now shouting at the top of his lungs. Shouting for he was furious the way that Christian was acting. "You disgust me Christian, and I hope you realize you have failed Satine. You don't love her, if you did, you wouldn't be living and acting the way you do. You would have written your story!" 

He finished breathing hard; proud he had been able to conquer his speech without his lisp interfering, and confident that he had finally gotten through to Christian. The doctor stood motionless not issuing a sound. Clink, clink, clink. The pot had slipped from Christian's fingers spilling its contents on the floor. He stood there looking pathetic and bare; simply staring at Toulouse. The anger was gone, there was simply a blankness as Christian began to fully grasp Toulouse's words. As a sudden understanding flicked in his eyes, but it was soon unrecognizable for they began to swell with tears. He sank to the floor on his knees as heart-rattling sobs began to fill the deathly silent room. His whole body shuddered with every sob, as he lay in a crumbled bare heap, completely in hysterics of realization.

"Whatttt have…what have I… I…I done?" he cried out in between his cries of anguish. Toulouse looked down on his friend as he sobbed uncontrollably with sorrow, for the pain he was going thorough must have been terrible. He had finally realized that he had dishonored Satine's love for him, and his for her, and this was almost as horrible as the day she had died. At least then he had been worthy for her love, but now, even in her death, he had shamed her.

How long he cried for, Toulouse couldn't tell. All he could do was to put a blanket on his cold and vulnerable body as it lay on the hard floor still shaking with sobs. The soup lay spilled and cold on the floor next to the pot that Christian had dropped. The doctor had simply sunken into a chair in the corner of the room and hadn't uttered a word since his arrival. Toulouse hadn't done much more, he had simply lain down in his cot and listed to Christian's moans of agony as he stared blankly at the wall. However painful it was for Toulouse to watch his friend in the state he was in, he simply found solitude by repeating "the first step to recovery is acceptance" over and again in his head. After a while, Christian's cries began to slowly get quitter. They then became moans, which follow by mire whimpers. Then there was silence. Toulouse went over to him and realized that his body had just finally shut down. He had been so drained emotionally that his body had just simply collapsed into a dreamless slumber so that it could recover from the trauma it had experienced for the last hour or so. Toulouse sighed and with the help of the Argentinean, who had awoken about half way thorough Christian's devastation, and the doctor, they were able to put him back into bed, but not without dressing him first.

For the first time since Christian's outburst Toulouse spoke in an unsure tone. "We ought to do somshing for his awm." 

"Ahh, yes" the doctor replied in barley a whisper. "I'll retrieve my materials." He walked toward the door where his medical bag had been dropped when he had run into Toulouse. Until now, no one had even given a thought to it. He crossed the length of the room and back again to Christian's bed side. Laying the bag on the bed and opening the clasp, he began to remove the necessary materials. No one spoke as they watched the doctor remove his things, and fill a syringe of clear liquid from a small bottle. He lifted Christian's arm out form under the covers, and pricked the needle into his vein at the crook of this elbow. Christian flinched slightly, but did not wake up. He then began to wrap his arm in gauze bandages. Next he went to the sink and filled a bowl with water and dumped a pouch of powder into it. Using a sort of spatula he stirred the mixture until it became a thick white past. With great care he slopped it onto the bandages and smoothed it into the right shape. With in minutes after the doctor had applied and molded the past it hardened into a plaster cast. The doctor held the cast in his hand and rapped it with his knuckles testing its durability. 

"Humm" he said thinking out loud. "That looks sturdy enough…" turning to Toulouse he added in a worried tone, "…but it's quite hard, I'd watch out if I were you. That lad doesn't appear to be very stable, you know, up there" he said in a whisper and jabbing a finger at his temple indicating that he took Christian for mentally insane. 

"Don't worwey, I think he's learned his wesson. These past six mounts have been extwemely hard on him, but I think he's going to make it." He said with a certain confidence.

"I don't know what went on with him, but I'm not one to interfere. You can never be too careful though, just remember that." He added as he began to pack up his things off the bed. 

"I'll keep that in mind sir." Toulouse said as the doctor made his way to the door. Toulouse could tell he purposely "forgot" to mention that if anything else should come up that they should call him. Toulouse didn't blame him as his back went out of view around the corner. Glancing at the sleeping tear streaked face of Christian, he realized that his friendship and loyalty alone could not help him learn to live and properly love again. Christian was going to have to find his way alone, Toulouse could only be the one to hold the light to guide him. He would do it though, Toulouse was sure of it. He would write the Moulin Rouge, and he would learn to open his heart again. Toulouse wasn't so sure he could ever love another women like he had loved Satine, but someone would find a small corner of his heart to occupy.

-Next chapters will be happier, don't worry; this is just setting the stage for later on. Hope you enjoy!

-Bre


	4. Chapter4- Gabby

Chapter 4 Valued Sony Customer Normal Valued Sony Customer 19 736 2001-09-29T04:56:00Z 2001-10-31T00:35:00Z 6 5132 29256 Sony 243 58 35928 9.2720 

Chapter 4

2 years later…

            A figure sat hunched over in a chair furiously beating on the keys of a well-used typewriter. The constant tap, tap sounded like music as it kept a rhythm. A ding, as the line was finished. The swoosh as it was pushed back into place, and then the tap, tap rhythm started up again. It suddenly broke; no it began again, but then subsided once more. Christian sat pondering the wording of a sentence. Should he use a comma, or just simply put and. It was driving him nuts. He must have typed, and retyped this same page a couple dozen times easily. Another tap, then an exasperated sigh, as he leaned back on the chair. Irritated from losing his train of thought, he slammed his fist hard against the table next to the typewriter. He quickly stood up, causing the chair to scrape harshly against the wood floor. He began to pace the room, his over shirt flapping against his arms as he stormed back and forth, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Even as he paced back and forth, he knew deep down that using a comma or an and didn't really matter. He had known that the first time he had gone to retype the same page. 

            "Ughhh! Christian, just make up your mind!" He shouted at himself. He stopped pacing and stood still, his frame silhouetted against the light that was spilling out from the open balcony door. He brought his hand to his mouth and began to angrily chew on his nail. Flinging his hand back down again to his side, a little harder than he meant to, he clenched his jaw and steeped out onto the balcony. Seating himself in the crook of one of the neon letters, now turned off for it wasn't dark enough to show up, he brought his knee up to his chest and rested his chin on it. He knew that the only reason that day after day he pondered over this sentence, or that word, was because he didn't want to grasp the fact that he was done, done with his story, the Moulin Rouge. He sat guilty, knowing that he was being silly. There was nothing left to, but yet he still couldn't bring himself to declare it finished. He knew why though, he had known this from the first day he had sat down to write it. What was he to do when he finished it? What meaning was there left in his life? He had paid his debt off to Satine, and not easily either. There had been so many nights when he had cried himself to sleep in frustration. It had to be perfect; it had to be no less, for Satine was no less. This story had become a part of his heart, his sole, his life, his very being. Now it was completed, it was done. He felt that it was like letting a part of himself go as he finally admitted this to himself. For the last 2 years, the Moulin Rouge had been his life, and now it was no more. He had no reason to wake up in the morning, no reason to resist drinks so he could stay sober and write, no reason to work odd jobs at god offal hours just so he could live, live to write. None of that seemed important now. What was he to do? He thought of Satine, but the pain that used to accompany this vision no longer consumed him. By writing the story he had finally been able to let go, not of her, for he could never do that, but let go of the depression and sorrow that had accompanied this thought. He was now able to remember the things that had made him smile, the things that had made his body go mad with anticipation as she had hinted to events that would take place that night, the things that had made his heart ach with the love that he had, and still had for her. He could now remember, and be happy he had ever gotten to experience true love, for there had never been a love truer than theirs. He smiled to himself thinking of his memories. Even though writing the Moulin Rouge had caused him as much trouble and suffering that it had, he couldn't have been more relieved that he was finally able to write it. He sat reminiscing about the day that had changed his life, the day that had slammed him back into reality. He sighed as traced the scar on the palm of his hand that he had had ever since he had picked up the boiling soup. What had he been thinking? He was grateful for what Toulouse had done, and that he had stopped him before he had killed Toulouse. One couldn't have asked for a better friend than Toulouse had been. It had been hard, and he had almost relapsed him back into a state of depression, the day he had passed on about a year ago. The room above never hummed with the same excitement, the same warmth, and the same energy after Toulouse had died. He had been there for Christian, he had risked everything for him, and this alone had made Christian force himself to keep writing, to keep living. What would all of Toulouse time and energy have been spent for if he had just thrown it all away and had lapsed back into his old self? He did sorely miss him though; none of the other Boho's could ever be as great to just sit and talk to, none of them could ever match Toulouse. But they knew this, and none of them had tried. Christian and the Boho's had simply tried the best they could to preserve his memory in their thoughts, for a replacement of him was simply deemed by all as impossible. They had taken his artwork and showed it to people. Toulouse had become a local legend now, and Christian was sure his reputation would only grow more and more. It was just a shame that many would never get to met the real man behind the pictures.

            He rose once again for his bum had grown numb from the hard metal on which he had been sitting. He walked back into the room, wobbling his ass trying to get the feeling back. Glad, that no one was there to watch him, for he was certain he looked like a complete idiot.  He began to walk normal again as the tingling subsided. He sat on the edge of his bed, 'much softer,' he thought, and looked around his room. There where piles of paper everywhere, and on the left wall there was a huge storyboard he had made with white chalk. It snaked, covering the entire wall, and even lapsed on to the floor, ceiling and other walls as his mind had flourished with ideas that his hand was itching to put down. To anyone else, the paper strewn floor, tables, chairs, and the walls filled with hardly legible writing would give one the impression of complete and utter chaos, but to Christian, it made perfect sense. He lay back with a flop onto his bed. The sun would be setting soon, Christian thought happily as a small grin caressed his lips. He loved to sit and watch the sun set, for it was the end of day, and the beginning of night, the one time when he could truly be content. For in sleep, thought was not constant, it was Christian's escape from reality especially after he had quite drinking. It was a time when he could dream, rest, and hope without the nagging voice in his head constantly reminding him of the truths he didn't want to hear.  

-------

Someone, across the straight in England, was thinking the exact opposite thing. Night meant father. Father meant terror.

Shallow breath issued in and out, in and out. Darkness was everywhere, Gabriella couldn't even see her hand in the tight cupboard that she had some how managed to cram herself into. She shifted trying to get more comfortable, some sort of can, probably soup, was jabbing into her lower spin. Not to mention what must have been a pot that her hamstring was firmly getting indented from. If mother were still alive she wouldn't have to hide every night before father came home. Oh how Gabby missed her mom. She felt her heart grow heavy with the guilt and pain that accompanied thoughts of her mother. She had killed her mom; she was a murder. Furiously she banged her head against the back of the cupboard, making her head swoon with a splitting headache. But that was nothing like the feeling that resided in the pit of her stomach, in her very sole. 

It had been eight years since the night that had changed her life forever, the night she had killed her mother. She felt hot tears of anger and sadness trickle down her cheeks. It had been a stormy night, as the heavens had let forth an unknown furry and pelted England with hail, rain, and howling winds. They had run clean out of coco, Gabby's favorite stormy weather drink. She used to curl up in the big green chair with her father and her mother, all under a big blanket with her squashed in the middle. Each would hold a steaming mug of coco and watch the storm bellow outside, thinking that life could never get any better; they were the perfect family living the perfect life. 

"Mother?" Gabby's nine year old voice rang out high and sweet. "Mum, where out of coco, and you know I can't sleep with out my coco before bed when there's a storm." She had pleaded sticking out her lower lip and batting her beautiful sparkling green eyes, so filled with warmth and youth.

"Oh cut out that puppy dog face, you!" Her mother had laughed fondly at her only child. Cupping Gabby's little chin in her silky hand she said, "Well, how can I resist that face? Really Gab, you know how to get to your old mum! I need a couple of things at the store anyway, and the storms let up a little, so I suppose this is as good of a time as any to go." Gabby's face lit up excitedly as the started walking over to the hall closet. 

"Thanks mum, thanks a lot!" Gabby had squealed excitedly at her mother's consent. 

"Not a problem, come along my little chickadee, we've got to dress warm!"

They opened the closet door, Gabby hopping around excitedly like a little rabbit. He mother giggled warmly watching Gabby with a twinkle in her eye. 

Gabby realized that she was now crying hard, her sobs filling the little cupboard in sorrow. Gabby missed her mother more than anything, her sent, her soft tough, her loving comments, and the warmth that seemed to fill ever room that her presence graced. Gabby sighed and leaned her head back against the wall.

They steeped outside, as the cold air seemed to find ways to penetrate their coats and bring the chill right to Gabby's skin making goose bumps spring all over her small trembling body. They began to walk the half-mile into town slowly for the wind was fierce. Luckily the rain had stopped, so they were still dry. Gabby's body had begun to shake as the furious cold wrapped its icy claws all around the little girl. She looked up to her mother, and her mother looked at her. The heat that spilled forth from her mother's reassuring smile seemed to warm Gabby to the core of her bones. Her mum gently squeezed her hand in comfort and loving. Gabby squeezed back happier than she ever thought she could have been. Soon they reached the lonely little town of Cadburrow, and made their way to the largest store in the whole place, the general store. It was painted a beautiful pale blue, or at least Gabby had thought it was pretty when she had seen it in the light, with the sun shining on its glossy paint. The general store seemed to dwarf all the other town buildings, even if the post was almost as big, but it was a dirty brown, an unpleasant eyesore. They walked to the door and pulled it open, the bell tinkling in the process. As it swung shut behind them, the cold completely shut out, Gabby could feel wood burning stove, crackling softly, in the back of the store. The heat filled the small store, and it was not long before Gabby and her mother were taking off their winter clothes, and carrying their jacket, hat, and gloves in their arms.  They took an empty wood basket, and made their way toward the second to last isle that housed the oh so delightful chocolate bars. Her mother would crush them up when the got home, and put them in a pot to melt over the fire. Then, with warm milk cooking on the stove, she would pore the melted chocolate into a cup, and then add the milk. It was wonderful to see her mother mix the delightful substance with a spoon and watch, intrigued, as the colors swirled and then blended together, in a perfect harmony that made her cup fill with a steaming light brown froth. When she would drink, it would run down her little throat, so thick she almost couldn't swallow. Her mother would always laugh at her for it was the only time she ever saw Gabby with a mustache like fathers. Caught a midst a daydream once again, her mother chuckled and had to ask the question again.

            "Do you suppose we should get three this time, this storm might hold out longer than we suspect." He mother inquired of her daughter. Gabby was all for getting as many bars as the two of them could carry, but she knew father's income couldn't allow that. However, they usually only got one, and two was rare, so getting three was a real treat. Grin plastered on her face as wide as a dinner plate, she eagerly replied,

            "Yes, definitely, we should never go without hot coco again." He mother smiled at her and placed three of the Heresy's bars into the basket. Seizing Gabby's hand, she began to make her way down the isle, but midway, swinging Gabby like an acrobat in a circus, she spun on the heal of her shoe and retraced he steps, muttering to herself about needing some more flour. Gabby watched her mother as she stood looking at the contents on the shelf trying to find just what she was looking for. With a flicker of triumph in her eyes, Gabby's mother let out a slight squeak of satisfaction and pounced on the last remaining bag of flour. With a loud thump, she plopped into the basket Gabby was holding. Not anticipating the weight, the basket dropped as Gabby's whole body bent in strain against the weight. However, her small muscles could not overcome the element of surprise that had allowed the flour bag to win this battle. The basket hit the floor with a thump, and a cloud of white flour bellowed out from the bag that now lay ripped, half of it hanging out form the basket, which lay on its side. A constant flow issued form the bag, like the sand that runs in a time turner, onto the ever-growing pile of flour that accumulated onto the previously spotless floor. Gabby slowly raised her head that had hung staring at the atrocity she had just caused. When her eyes met her mother's, they were wide with shock. They looked straight into Gabby, and then, without warning, her mum began to laugh. Her laughter rang so sweetly and so fully that many a head turned to peek over the shelve tops to see the cause of commotion. Gabby had no idea what she found to be so hilarious; paying for a useless bag of flour was not funny. But her mother continued to laugh until tears ran from her eyes and she clutched the stitch in her middle, caused by her tumultuous laugh that had shook her whole body. Wiping her eyes, and still chuckling slightly, her mother was finally able to speak.

            "Your…face…" she broke into laughter again while raising a hand and wiping away the white powder that had coated Gabby's entire round little face. Seeing the look of complete puzzlement in Gabby's features, she was sent into another bought of hysterics as Gabby for the first time realized her whole head was covered in a white veil. At this Gabby couldn't help joining in with her mother, her shrill, high pitched laugh coursed with her mothers, sweet, smooth one, as both stood in the middle of the isle, thoroughly caught up in enjoying the moment. By the time they had both calmed down, the owners son, alerted by their laughter, was already standing near by, waiting for their fit to end so he could sweep up the mess.

Gabby shifted uncomfortably in her cupboard, at that time, everything had seemed wonderful, she was her mother's daughter, and they loved one another. Daddy lover her and her mother, and even being poor didn't seem to upset her back then. Life had been so blissful, so wonderful; Gabby thought sadly, recalling that standing in the isle with her mother, covered in flour. That was the last time either of them had laughed till now, and Gabby's mother would never be able to again. 

The owners son, coughed to get their attention, and Gabby and her mom struggled to lift out the busted flour bag from the basket. This in turn only caused it to spill more, and with a curt phrase from the displeased boy, they picked up the three, surprisingly undamaged candy bars from admits the wreckage, gathered a few other odd items, butter, oil, sewing thread, and hand in hand, they skipped towards the cashier. 

"Don't worry about the flour." The man said at the counter. Any other customer he most likely would have made them pay. However, he couldn't help that he had always had a soft spot for the little girl. She was always so fun to watch when she came here with her mother. Her energy and curiosity amused him. He had always wanted a little girl for himself, but he had only managed to get five boys instead, and his wife was far too old for childbearing now. Besides, he sighed, he didn't think he could afford a sixth child, and it would probably be another boy any way. Having boys seemed to run in his family; the only girl he could remember was his great aunt (long gone now) who was the only girl out of eight boys. She had almost died in childbirth too. Coming out of memory lane, the storeowner, a thin balding man, rang up the items Gabby's mother, Louise, had handed him.

"How are you doing tonight Louise?  I'm a little surprised to see you here so late when there's a mean storm like the one tonight, and buying odd things for that matter; chocolate bars and thread?!" He questioned raising his eyebrows and chuckling.

"Oh, my little Gabby here," she said ruffling her still white hair, "she wanted some hot chocolate for the storm, and you can't say no to a little girl who wants chocolate, epically with the way she looks at you. It just makes my heart melt every time! Besides, I had to pick up a few miscellaneous items anyway." She said more to Gabby than the man. Her smile made Gabby really realize just how loved she was, and she felt her heart ach as she tried to return the feeling with her eyes and smile. 

"That'll be 6 pence ma'am." He said bringing Louise's attention back to him. 

"All right then," she said, rummaging through her small purse she had extracted from a pocket in her coat. Gabby knew that even though it was only six pence, it was still hard to come by for the Parson family. Tight lipped, her mother handed over six small coins and shut the clasp on her purse. She then swung on her coat, and with a flick of her hand, indicated that Gabby do the same.

"Thank you kindly Louise." The man said. "And thank you Will." she replied taking back the things they had bought in a small paper bag that he handed her. As Gabby's mother turned to leave, once again the bell above the door tinkled. Gabby stepped in front of her mother, curious to see whom the person was. The person was clad in a large dark coat, black, with the hood up. It looked tired, and in need of repair or retirement, there were holes and the color had faded to a light shade of grayish black. As Gabby stared into the faceless creature, she felt goose bumps rise all over her arms, and she knew it wasn't because of the wind that the stranger had brought in with him. Standing some 30 feet away, the stranger stopped and let the door swing shut behind it, for there was no way to be certain whether "it" was a man or a women. Will, the shop owner, the stranger, and both Gabby and her mother were frozen, simply staring, not sure what to make of the situation. Then, Gabby watched horrified as the thing pulled out a shiny silver handgun from within the folds of its coat. Eyes popping in fright, she felt like her feet had become like lead as it turned the shiny head of the gun, right at her stomach. She watched the thing pull the trigger with a pale hand, and heard the explosion issue from the black hole in the head of the gun. As the bullet speed towards her, she could not think, not move, not even breath. She heard her mother scream, high and unnatural, and saw her move her slender body to the left, blocking Gabby's view from the ever-approaching bullet. Then, thump. Her mother's stomach heaved backward as her body fallowed, causing a distorted whiplash that shook her body. Her mother's figure, began to quaver on the spot, and teetered. Will ran from the counter, face even whiter than Gabby's flour coated one, and caught Louise before her body hit the cold hard floor. Gabby could only hear her own breath, in and out, she seemed mute to everything around her. She stood confused, her mind frozen, unable to process the situation. She saw the cloaked creature run behind the now unguarded cashier and wrench it open, stuffing the coins and notes into it's pockets. Then the figure turned, and speed out the door, putting the shiny thing away once more, and went out the door without looking back. The bell tinkered once again as the door swung shut behind the stranger. 

The small cupboard was now riveting with Gabby's sobs, it had been a long time since she had deviled back into her mind this far, and the pain made her whole body ach. She now cursed herself, for the hundredth time. Why had she just stood there, and let her mother take her life to save her?

Gabby's head began to process information once again, and as it started up, Gabby was suddenly stuck with a pain so fierce, it almost made her collapse. A weight burdened her shoulders as she looked down at the pitiful, bloody crumpled heap that was her mother. She collapsed onto her knees and reached out a shaking hand to wipe that stands of hair that hung over her mother's face. She felt Will's hand on her shoulder as her hand parted her mother's coat, searching for the wound. She felt a thick stickiness on her fingers, and drew them out from within the coat, holding them up to see. They were coated with dark blood that ran down her hand. She turned her head, still silent, her voice lost, as she gazed unbelieving at the nightmare before her. A small river of dark blood began to creep down the floor, its origin from a hole in her mother's backside. Will watched the girl careful with his heart heavy as she began to stroke her mothers face, quietly whispering for her to get up so they could go home and make hot coco. Then he watched as she stopped, staring, into Louis's open but unseeing eyes. There was no warmth, no familiar flicker to remind Gabby that everything was going to be all right. Gabby voice became shrill and unnatural, she began to shout and scream, and now the tears streamed forth, with no sign of ever stopping. And, for the most part, Will was right. It seemed that Gabby never did stop crying after she had began. Her life had changed that faithful night, the night her mother was stolen from her. Will watched sadly as she stopped screaming, her voice so horse it could barley be heard, as she lay her head on her mother's chest, her small body quivering with grief. The brown bag lay crumpled to the left, the chocolate now forgotten. After that night, Gabby Parson never looked the same. Her eyes never again shone with that spark of life that Will had so loved to see. Gabby was a broken sole, and she was only seven. However, Will didn't know that Gabby's father never quite recovered from the incident either. 

Will didn't know, Gabby thought furiously, no one knew. Father had made sure of that. At first, life was hard, they both grieved, went to the funeral, hardly spoke, each trying to get through each day. Life was so quite, so meaningless without mother. At first, Gabby had pitied her father, she had never realized he had loved her as much as he did, but then he began to turn that love, once so pure, into a tainted and dirty hate. An evil hate, not at the stranger who committed the crime, for they never discovered who it was, but at Gabby. He had then began to drink she remembered, about a year after her death, when the grief had subsided and the hate settled in its place. He began to drink so much, that there wasn't an hour of the day that wasn't father's happy hour. The house began to stink, with the stench of alcohol. Their savings were getting eaten alive, three quarters of it went to his consumption of beer. And, it was in this murky bottle that he found a way to ease his pain, he made Gabby his target of hate. He began to call her a murder, a thief of his wife, he would rant that she planed it, hired the stranger to kill her. He shouted that she killed her mum for chocolate. The problem was, that Gabby knew deep down that he wasn't entirely wrong. She had been the one to beg her mum to go to the store, and for what? Messily chocolate bars. She had been the one that just stood there when the gun was pulled, and her mother had saved her, she had steeped in front of the bullet so Gabby could live. The guilt that surfaced with this was almost unbearable. He used to force her to stand in front of the mirror and say over and over "I am a murder, I am a murder." Gabby had begun to believe this too, began to hate herself. Then, it got worse. Father would come home, and at first, he would only hit or slap her for doing something wrong, like burning the dinner, not doing the chores. He was disciplining her, maybe a bit stricter than need be, but his punishments weren't unreasonable. Then, they had become without justifiable reason. He would throw things, hit, kick; smack her for "walking wrong," "smiling to much," "not doing her chores fast enough." It wasn't long after, when there were no longer explanations, he simply would come home, beat her until she was a bloody wreck, and then settle down in a chair with a beer, content, feeling he had taught her well. It became pleasurable for him. He would laugh as he kicked her over and over. Sometimes he was more creative, and would make her stick her arm in the fire, eat rotten food, and make her stand on one foot, or on her head, for hours at a time. This is why Gabby learned to fear and hate her father. He had taken a love and turned it into a hate that became an obsession. Sometimes she wished he would just kill her, end the horrors she had to live, both at home and at school. Home, she faced a battle to stay alive. At school she became a subject for ridicule. No one questioned why she was covered in bruises and marks, everyone figured she must be really bad, and her father had a right to properly discipline her. She couldn't do much to prove them wrong either; she was constantly steeling foods so she could eat, fighting with kids out of anger and loneliness, and doing poorly on tests and work because she no longer had the heart, or a purpose, to do well. 

Gabby sat, tear streaks, now dry, lined her face, pulling it taught. She felt so angry, so hopeless. Would she ever escape? Could she ever defeat her father? Gabby voluntarily moved a hand to her upper stomach, and traced the thin scar, about an inch and a half long. This was where her father had almost succeeded in killing her. This was where he had stabbed her three years ago. She had been forced to use a needle and thread to sew it up, and had to painfully squeeze it each day to get the yellow infected puss out until it closed completely up, almost 2 weeks after it had happened.

Suddenly, Gabby felt her heat leap to her throat, as her thoughts were cut short by a loud bang followed by a series of uneven footsteps. Someone had just walked in the front door, and in the process had almost fallen over. There was silence and Gabby thought that her lungs might burst with the effort of trying to breath quietly, and from the pressure that her left knees was exerting into her diaphragm. The person placed a shaky hand on the banister, trying to gain composer in his drunken state. He was a large, tall and very wide set man. He had scraggily week old stubble blotting his face and down his throat. He had salt and pepper hair that stood out at odd angles, and he was way overdue for a haircut. His eyes were a light watery blue, but hardly recognizable under the bushy eyebrows. The whites of his eyes were completely blood shot, streaked with red lines. His cheeks were red, and his teeth were crooked and a nasty shade of yellow. His breath came out rancid, putrid to all those around. His nose was large, and blotched with purple marks. His clothes were covered in past meals and liquids, and were home to many holes and rips. His shoes were brown leather hunks, 2 sizes to small. His big toe even protruded out of the right shoe. This drunkard, a horrible drunkard that lived off of alcohol in any form, was father. Father was home.

            Lifting the dirt and filth caked hand that did not occupy the bottle; he brought it to his forehead and massaged his temples. His face was beaded with sweet, and some of the grim came off in the process. 

            Staggering slightly he bellowed into the darkness. "Gabriella!" His voice raspy and curt.

Gabby felt the breath catch in her throat. Fear flooded down her veins as she heard his footsteps advance up the rickety staircase in their hole of an apartment towards her. She began to rock slightly, eyes closed, hoping he would not find her before he passed out. As his footsteps neared her small cramped hiding place in the cupboard above the stove, she began to shake with terror. She then felt her eyes begin to water with the effort of keeping quite as he entered the room across from her hiding place.

            "Oh, Gabby! Gabby where are you! Come out come out wherever you are! Daddy wont hurt you!" The man cooed in a singsong voice, but his face remanded hard and angry as a flare of hate sparked in his little watery eyes. Gabby wasn't fooled; in fact she was even more scared if that was possible. When he got like this, when he pretended to just be her friend and say that he wouldn't hurt her, this meant that he was mad, madder than usual and this was never a good sign if she wished to keep her frail body intact. He turned, his footsteps growing ever louder on the dusty wood floor. Gabby now realized she was holding her breath. Her heart was beating a million miles an hour, and she was certain he could hear it. It sounded like a hammer against her chest with every beat. She willed her heart to stop too, with all her might. He would hear it if it didn't, she was sure of it. She began to feel lightheaded, and, as quietly as possible let the breath escape from her trembling lips. 

            "Are you in here?" Father bellowed opening up the stove door and squatting down to peer inside. By now he was getting annoyed, his patience was easily wrung. Taking another swig of the amber liquid, he began pulling open more draws and cupboards, scattering the contents within using one giant sweep with his club of a hand. Gabby was now frantic with fear and anticipation. Now father had dropped his singsong voice and had adopted the harsh cold tone that she was only too familiar with. 'He must be getting really impatient' she thought apprehensively. And he was. 

            "Gabriella, come out now! I'll be a lot nicer if you do, but if you don't, you best hope that you hid well because when I find you, I'm gonna make you sorry you was ever born!" He shouted, his words slurring with anger and drunkenness. His muscles began to twitch in anticipation. He moved his disgusting hand toward the only cupboard in the room he hadn't checked. Gabby's whole body stiffened as an absolute silence filled the room. 'He's found me, he's found me' she whimpered to herself. Right then, the door was burst open as father jerked hard on the handle, spilling light into her meager hole. Her father stared at her, and she stared back, fear covering every corner of her pale face. He gave a sneer of success, his eyes alight with a fiery glaze, and stuck his hand in to grab her from protection. At that moment, without even thinking, as fear pulsed in her very heart, she lashed out screaming with the heal of her boot and struck him hard in the face. The force knocked him clean back and with a look of utter amazement, and blood streaming from his crooked nose, he began to fall backward towards the wall behind him. He beat his arms to frantically in the air, attempting to gain balance. But, as he failed to gain control, he fell back, and with a sickening thud that made goose bumps spring up on Gabby's arms, his head cracked against he wall opposite of her hiding spot. Father's expression went blank and his eyes rolled back exposing the valley of reds clearer than before silhouetted against the whites. As gravity took hold of the limp body he slid down to the ground leaving a trail of sticky dark blood on the wall before he crumpled into an awful heap. Gabby sat, transfixed at the grotesque image with one leg dangling out of the cupboard, still swinging with the momentum from the kick. She sat there, completely frozen for a few minutes, breathing hard, while the blood formed a puddle next to the limp body. Finally, she got up her courage and hopped down to the stove, and then to the ground, trying to be as quite as possible. She knew he was past ever waking up but she couldn't help acting any differently. She edged along the opposite wall and out the door. She stood looking at him, realizing that she felt no pity or regret for what she had done.

            Suddenly, as she stared at him, her face contorted with anger, and her blood began to boil. Then, without thinking she screamed, bellowing at the limp figure. "That's what you get you fucking bastard!" The anger in her voice amazed even her. "That's what you get…" she repeated almost in a whisper letting her shaky voice trail off. Then she broke into sobs, emotions caged for so long spilling out. She couldn't help it; she just slid to the floor out in the hall blubbering. She couldn't be sure how long she had sat there, wishing more than ever for her mother to comfort her. But she couldn't, for Gabby had killed her mother, and now she had killed her father too. Thoughts swirled about her head, both complex and simple, making her suddenly feel quite dizzy. In no time, she had drifted off into an uneasy slumber. A little while later, tired and groggy, she got up and made her way down the hall. She then began to quickly rummage among the dump she lived in, gathering clothes and any possessions she could use. She was leaving, leaving this nightmare, and starting a new life. With a renewed since of courage and energy, she quickly looted her father's drawers in his room for anything of value, but only found 19 pence and a couple of old brooches. She was actually quite pleased, he was always spending every coin he came into contact with on alcohol, and it amazed her that she was able to scrounger that much. The brooches were almost useless unless she could make some sucker believe they were real antiques and not just neglected and worthless. It didn't take her long to stuff all her possessions into a brown paper bag, and without a last glance at the body in the kitchen, she ran down the stairs, bag in hand slapping against her thighs with every steep. Finally, finally she was leaving the hell that she had lived in for ten long years of her life. She bound out the door, already her conscience forgetting the murder she had committed, more lighthearted than she could remember feeling for a very long time. Her young 17-year-old mind began to blossom with hopes, dreams, and ideas as the cool night air swirled around her; her newfound freedom was just itching with possibilities. She headed east from the city, towards the straight, towards the ferry, towards Paris and a promising future and out of London and a painful past.         


End file.
